


Belonging

by Tammany



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Love, First Time, M/M, Vulnerability
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-14
Updated: 2014-04-14
Packaged: 2018-01-19 08:33:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1462699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tammany/pseuds/Tammany
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg. Mycroft. First...encounter. Aftermath. </p><p>Exploration of a particular kind of power dynamic...fairly benign. Not a power-kink story, IMO. Loving, being loved, making oneself vulnerable, making oneself willing to bear the burden of letting someone else be vulnerable. The cost of accepting your partner's fragility.</p><p>Some people love so deeply, and are so vulnerable, only the strong should risk it.</p><p>Emotionally pretty steamy. Graphically probably no more than soft-porn at best.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Belonging

"And lead me not into temptation…”

 

Lestrade later could not decide who was the tempter and who the tempted. Going by intent, it was neither, at the start, he supposed, though he had to confess that much past the start the intention had originally been his. Seeing Mycroft Holmes’ eyes flare wide and go all glassy…. It had set something off in Lestrade.

It had started, though, with an argument, and Mycroft’s voice overriding his, a dry, irked murmur as The British Government attempted to dictate terms and conditions to his loyal, weary field agent.

“It won’t work,” Lestrade had tried to say.

A sigh from Mycroft, and then, “Make it work, Lestrade. Sherlock can’t be involved in this, and someone’s got to ensure he doesn’t even think of that. I leave the necessity in your able—“

“No, it’s not going to—“

“—hands. Just see if you can get him involved in one of your messier little puzzles—“

That was when Lestrade, not really thinking, had stood, walked around the desk, leaned one palm on the edge—and touched the very tip of his thumb to Mycroft’s lips, silencing him. He couldn’t say why his thumb, not the tip of his index finger. He couldn’t say why he rested it, the pad just touching the center, right under the bow defined by the philtral dimple, the warmth of both lips startling him. He could feel Mycroft’s startled huff from nose and mouth combined.

“Hush,” he said, firmly.

Mycroft blinked and started to open his mouth, only to freeze, as though his awareness of the thumb still brushing his lips, hovering in front of the slight open gape of his mouth, was so shocking in its intimacy as to leave him helpless.

“Good,” Lestrade said. “Better. Now listen: I can’t play Sherlock that way. He does not listen. He is not reliably led. You yourself can’t reliably keep him aimed in any direction you wish. The only way to be sure Sherlock will keep out of your little project is to ensure he never knows about it—and that’s primarily your job, not mine. I’ll do what I can. I’ll be happy to throw him any bones that come our way. But he’s fussy about what he takes, and he’s too paranoid not to notice if I send him much that’s too obviously lightweight. Do you understand that, Mycroft?”

Double-intimacy: The thumb, still softly grazing the slight point of Mycroft’s upper lip, brushing the curve of his lower lip. Then the use of his personal name, rather than the more common “sir.”

Mycroft nodded. The tip of his tongue darted nervously forward to lick his lips—then pulled back as quickly, as he realized he’d be licking the curve of Lestrade’s thumb.

Both men, then, froze. Lestrade, running on frustration and chutzpah until that moment, thought something that could have been translated as “Oh, fuck,” if there had been words associated with that inarticulate panic.

It probably would have ended, then, in a mutual scramble and gruff apology on Lestrade’s part and a barely contained hissy-fit on Mycroft’s…if, just then, Mycroft’s pupils had not flared wide and his breath caught, as the physical touch, the proximity, the locked eyes all hit his emotional barriers like the rising wave of a tsunami, crashing down decades’ worth of reserve and flooding Mycroft’s placid soul with raging currents of response. Even then, it might have ended, if, in response to those wide eyes, so panicked and so very aware, Lestrade’s thumb had not, almost of its own volition, brushed, softly, tracing a bare few centimeters of Mycroft’s upper lip, as though some previously slumbering beast in his soul had murmured, quietly, “I wonder what will happen…”

What happened was that Mycroft’s eyes closed, and he shivered…and Lestrade was lost.

That was why it was so hard to determine who was the tempted, and who the tempter. He was quite sure Mycroft had not meant to be tempting. The reaction had been just that—reaction. Long ignored instincts had chosen to lean back and howl in chaos for poor Mycroft, and he’d done what he could to respond in a restrained and controlled fashion. Closed eyes. A shiver so small as to be invisible, unless you were mere inches away with your thumb tracing the line of a lip, feeling the quiver through senses suddenly grown too perceptive. Mycroft hadn’t meant to tempt—but it wasn’t a matter of intent. “Tempting” was apparently just one of the defining terms of his existence. He himself might prefer “I think, therefore I am,” but Lestrade at that moment might have argued, “You are, therefore you tempt.”

Lestrade returned the favor. He let his thumb stir restlessly over those few centimeters of lip, rejoicing in the sharp shudder of breath in response.

“You like that,” he whispered, his voice seeming the only sound in the entire office.

The huff of breath, the eyes snapping open…God. So hot.

Lestrade’s own responsive twitch, the tightening in his groin, the tense snap of the muscles over his belly, the prickly rush of heat pouring over his skin… He licked his own lower lip, not to be provocative but from pure nervous energy.

Mycroft’s eyes followed the movement. His tongue flickered at the very brink of his mouth in sympathetic mimicry, stopping just short of touching. He turned his head a tiny, tiny increment, pouted so very slightly, brushing his mouth over Lestrade’s tracing, restless thumb. Then he drew back…but not enough. Not enough to lose that contact. He closed his eyes again, shivering, his expression torn between uncertainty and desire.

The uncertainty would win, in the end. Lestrade knew the other man by now, after so many years working with him. He was caution personified. Control made flesh. Reserve wearing pinstripe. He would retreat…

It was unnerving how sure he was what would happen, how Mycroft Holmes would react. Backing away, closing down, covering their reactions with a flurry of sharp, biting comments—and, almost certainly, a sudden rearrangement of staff. He’d insist on seeing it as professionalism…because seeing it as terror would shatter him.

“It’s all right,” Lestrade whispered. “Shhh. It’s all right. You can trust me. You know you can trust me.” It felt like trying to talk a terrified cat off a high tree limb or a suicide off a bridge. Mycroft shook his head, drawing back further, finally breaking the contact, but not yet able to speak or recover his façade of professional dignity. Lestrade was terrified by the intensity of his own desire to prevent that from happening. His hand moved, his index finger arched out, he brushed the arch of Mycroft’s cheekbone with the back of his knuckle. “I’m safe, Mycroft. You know me. I’m safe…no danger to you.” His hand drifted down again, his thumb once more brushing over Mycroft’s lips, touching lightly, teasing delicately. “Feel it. You’re allowed. No, leave your eyes shut…that’s allowed, too. Just feel it.” He traced the line of Mycroft’s upper lip—not just the cresting seam where lip met the rest of his face, but the full, soft, sensitive stretch of soft pink—pink that grew just that shade darker on a mouth that seemed to be softer, more full than it had been mere seconds before.

Mycroft’s hand snapped up; grabbed his wrist. His fingers were strong, long, and wrapped around like iron. “No…” It wasn’t loud, though—a whisper, husked softly, not quite his normal commanding certainty. He drew Lestrade’s hand away…but not far away.

“Only if you want it,” Lestrade whispered back, leaning closer. He knew, in his gut, he was being evil; he knew, in his gut, that Mycroft did want it…and knew he wanted it.

They defined a space with their bodies. Mycroft, sitting in his chair, turned to face Lestrade. He was upright, one hand raised to cling to Lestrade’s wrist, the other clutching the edge of the desk. Lestrade, leaning heavily, with one hand braced on the desk, head bowing over Mycroft’s. His other hand still almost touching Mycroft’s mouth—so close Mycroft had to be able to feel his palm’s heat against his face, against his lips. He’d smell the faint trace of the cigarette Lestrade had dared sneak before coming to this meeting. He’d smell coffee on Lestrade’s breath, as Lestrade could smell strong, fruity Assam tea on Mycroft’s. Between them was air—negative space shaped by their bodies, air warmed by their heat, space scented with their sweat and musk and closeness.

So very much like talking a suicide off a bridge; talking a killer out of his gun…

“I know you have people to fuck,” he said, softly. “That’s no problem. It’s easy to find people you can fuck and leave behind. Who do you have to make love to you? Who do you have who can make you feel like you belong to someone? You can trust me, Mycroft—you can let me make you my own, because you know I understand the terms and the conditions: the price of making you mine. Look at me, love—you know me. You know I understand the boundaries…”

Mycroft did look then—straight into Lestrade’s eyes. His pupils were wide and black—as blown as ever Sherlock’s had been after an evening of drugs and rage. His tongue came out again, licking at the corner of his mouth. His fingers slowly let go their grip on Lestrade’s wrist—not a spoken permission, but a silent, implied one.

Lestrade’s thumb returned to Mycroft’s mouth, stroking, teasing, tender. “It’s that thing where you have to let me own you a bit that’s the hard part, isn’t it? Give me power to move you, to touch you…” His thumb swept over Mycroft’s lower lip, pressed wide and gentle against the line where upper met lower.

Mycroft let his lips part; let his tongue slip out to trace the whorled pad, feather-light, delicate. His tongue withdrew, and he kissed Lestrade’s thumb lightly, before brushing his lips over the tip again.

“So hard to open yourself up to that, isn’t it? To want, to respond…to react, as well as act. To be a lover, not just a man sating a need?” He drew his hand away from Mycroft’s mouth, only to stroke down the side of that long neck, slipping his fingers under the edge of his shirt collar. Mycroft tipped his head, giving Lestrade’s fingers more room. He slid them further, tracing the top-line of his shoulder, finding the dent created by tendon and clavicle.

Mycroft let go of the desk, then. His hand came up and caught Lestrade’s waistband, tugged him closer. He buried his face against Lestrade’s belly, fisted both hands in his shirt.

“Oh, bugger…” he said softly, hopelessly. “Oh, bugger…” His arms held tight. He took a deep breath; Lestrade felt his shoulders rise as he gripped them tight. “Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

Mycroft shook his head, face still pressed tight to Lestrade’s stomach.

“What do you want?” Neither had yet raised his voice above a whisper…not because anyone would hear. It was night, there were few, if any people in the main offices outside Mycroft’s, and Lestrade knew from long experience that Mycroft’s offices were sound-proofed to a fare-thee-well. Nothing louder than an intimate whisper seemed right, though… “What do you want?” he asked again, not sure why he needed the words.

“Make love to me.”

Lestrade dropped to his knees, hands still on Mycroft’s shoulders. He looked up into Mycroft’s face.

The man—his man, his lover—was blasted open, shell-shocked, torn wide—Lestrade found none of the words he tried quite matched the feeling of looking into that much shaken, helpless vulnerability. Mycroft Holmes did not know how to do this—and certainly didn’t know how to do it in cautious increments, or in half-measures. If he was going to fall in the face of temptation, he was plummeting, out of control, with nothing to hold on to but trust for Lestrade.

It was, Lestrade thought later, the most glorious, terrifying experience of his life: making love to a man familiar with sex, who appeared entirely unfamiliar with lovemaking. It was a bit like being granted a night with someone who had the wiles of a rakehell and the heart of a virgin priest. The actions didn’t shock Mycroft in the least; his own response to giving himself over to being made love to, and to responding? Blitzkrieg. Hiroshima. The city of Mycroft’s heart burned… and Lestrade felt like a God. His hand, _his_ kiss, **_his_** thrust…each with a power and potency for Mycroft they’d had for no one else before.

It was almost four weeks before Sherlock caught on…not, Lestrade thought, because he and Mycroft were doing anything exceptionally well in terms of hiding it. Just a matter of luck and serendipity. It all came apart at the end of a mutual meeting, in Mycroft’s office again. Lestrade knew the second Sherlock realized…and knew why. He’d refilled Mycroft’s tea-cup for him from the big insulated carafe on the desk, and handed it to his lover. In return Mycroft nodded and smiled—the quiet smile that, for Lestrade, hung like a single note played on the deep bottom string of a harp, lingering long after the first tone is heard…

Sherlock caught his breath, and Lestrade knew that secrecy was done.

Sherlock said nothing in the office. He said nothing as the two left the building, leaving Mycroft behind to complete his work in his office. He said nothing until they hit the pavement outside the MI6 building. Then he grabbed Lestrade’s coat and shoved him against the building wall.

Lestrade looked at Sherlock. “Yeah?” It wasn’t like he needed to say more. They both knew what Sherlock knew. The question was what he wanted to say about it.

Sherlock’s jaw tightened. “Does the power give you a rush?”

Lestrade shrugged. “I’d be a liar if I said it didn’t. If it matters, it’s not what attracted me in the first place. Fringe benefit, no more.”

“Then what?”

“He’s the one whose happiness makes me happy.”

Sherlock frowned. “What?”

Lestrade shook his head. “Don’t give me that, Sherlock. Think about John and Mary: their happiness makes you happy. You feel better, even if it makes you sad. You still feel better knowing they’re happy, right?”

The taller man refused to answer—which was fine with Lestrade, as his eyes gave the answer away regardless. After a moment Sherlock let Lestrade go.

“He’s got no protection against you,” he said, uneasily. “It used to just be he didn’t care. With you even I can see he cares...and he’s not trained for that.”

“Is this the bit where you threaten to kill me if I hurt him?”

Sherlock shook his head, curls quivering. “No,” he said, in utter confusion. “You will hurt him. You won’t be able to help it. He’s all nerve, no skin, like a burn victim.” He frowned, fretful and peevish and uncertain of himself in the role of the worried sibling. After all, that as Mycroft’s usual role… “You will hurt him. But if you hurt him without caring—I _will_ kill you,” he said, then walked away without another word, seeming like one in shock.

Lestrade looked after him and sighed.

There was, he thought, nothing Sherlock could threaten him with…not when he was already living with the terror caused by the open, fragile love in the eyes of a man risking love for the first time. Mycroft Holmes had let himself belong to Lestrade—and Lestrade was learning the responsibility of owning and being owned.


End file.
